Neil Edward Bernhart (![]() ![]() @ 2009-06-18 01:51:00 |
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Entry tags: | neil bernhart, rating: pg-13, status: complete |
Who: Neil
What: Lord, I know we don’t talk…
Where: Within view of the Compound
When: A few hours after Innes wakes up
Rating: PG-13
Status: Complete
When the refugees left the museum, Neil completely forgot about the packages of glowing ceiling stars he’d pilfered from one of the museum gift shops. He hadn’t done it until Charlie fell asleep on the second floor of the Rose Center, with its unsettlingly tall windows and the giant models of planets hanging overhead. They were going to be on the move, and Neil thought it might be nice to stick a package on the ceiling above where they’d be sleeping. Or, more accurately, where they’d be trying to sleep.
After so much rifling to find supplies or ammo or spare socks, the stars were buried at the very bottom of his backpack and when they were rediscovered, Neil realized they hadn’t seen anywhere near enough sunlight to glow in the dark. It didn’t matter anyway. The days were slipping by, from meager meal to meager meal, silent paranoia dripping into silent depression into silent rage. He doubted they’d magically be of comfort to any of the group. Sometimes the four of them would talk to each other, but none of the conversations lasted because what was there to say? Every once in a while, Neil thought about how this shared experience would drive the four of them apart forever, only then his own pathetic concerns were steamrolled by what they had been forced to run from. The perpetual question mark hanging over the building they all so desperately kept within their sights made it impossible to be selfish for long.
Neil placed one package on a windowsill Wednesday morning because of Charlie. Back at the museum, staring at a solar system on strings, the woman had at least found enough peace to sleep for a little while. Hell, he wanted to envy her for that, but what would begrudging the woman honestly do? Nobody was going to feel better, not until they could swallow their emotions long enough to not only establish a plan as a group, but successfully carry out that plan, rescue Rory, grab back any other prisoners, and kill Ted in the most satisfactory manner available. A grisly death would make him a martyr amongst the insane individuals who helped him, wouldn’t it? None of that. Something clean as to avoid his slimy grinning face appearing on any woe-is-the-fallen-leader posters.
The stars were barely glowing when he had the sense to stop thinking and retrieve them instead, but the dull lemon-lime of the plastic was better than nothing. He had already watched Innes wake unceremoniously, turning away quickly because he had no right to be seeing someone else’s emotional pain. That was private, and Neil understood all too well that it wasn’t easy to just bottle everything and hope for the best. All of them were hemorrhaging and there wasn’t much to be done about it but turn a blind eye and eat beans and stick stupid plastic moons and stars on the ceiling as if anyone was going to give a flying fuck, all the while hoping everyone knew how to stop their own bleeding. Would some throwback to childhood and nightlights and bedtime stories really tuck their monsters in a closet with four different locks and a deadbolt? No. But Neil would try. This was his bandage, his running stitch, the way to plug the wound. Focusing on everyone else, on Charlie’s momentary fixation on the solar system and Spider’s peaceful breathing and Innes’ need for organization, rationing, guard watches. It was this, or being crippled. Bleeding out on the floor of some shitty apartment, all his baggage shutting him down.
Neil couldn’t be bothered to find a true stepladder, so he improvised. No details necessary, no real importance locked in his actions. He needed a few extra inches to reach the ceiling without making noise, and that’s what he got. Everyone was sleeping again, or pretending to again, and he honestly wanted it to stay that way. After extracting all the stupid glowing shapes, he started breaking off adhesive, jabbing it to the backs of stars to press them to the ceiling, and that’s just about where his mind jumped the tracks and stumbled into a whole new psychological gauntlet.
The anger finally hit him, this cannonball burst that he’d been beating back for days now. Maybe it was seeing Innes stir like that. Maybe Neil just wasn’t as good at shoving stuff on the backburner as he thought he was. Whatever the reason, the motive, the catalyst, the next star he jabbed to the ceiling came with the beginnings of a silent discussion, one-sided and pissed off. Nothing else was going to get him to talk, that was certain. Funny what anger could do.